


Ownership

by Okibe Yemoun (okibe_yemoun)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Sexual Coercion, Submission, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 07:56:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2644130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okibe_yemoun/pseuds/Okibe%20Yemoun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Magnussen pissed in the fireplace, John was outraged; Sherlock, on the other hand, was just a little aroused. Magnussen noticed.</p><p>A few weeks later, after Sherlock comes out of hospital, Magnussen summons him to his office.</p><p>Written to fill my own prompt on <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/22393.html?thread=132819577#t132819577">the LiveJournal Sherlock kink meme</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Ownership

“Ah, Mr Holmes, thank you for coming.” Magnussen sipped his drink and didn’t look up from his computer. He indicated the chair on the other side of his desk. “You can put your coat and scarf there. I will be with you shortly.”

Sherlock looked at the chair and hesitated. He had no desire to do anything Magnussen asked him to do, but on the other hand, given the stakes, there was no need to antagonise him unnecessarily. He removed his coat and scarf and laid them on the back of the chair. He noticed he hadn’t been invited to sit down, and anyway, that would imply that he intended to stay here longer than it took for Magnussen to explain why he’d told him to come over. So Sherlock remained standing and said nothing. 

Magnussen continued to look at his laptop, occasionally typing or chuckling at something he did not share with Sherlock. He poured himself a tall glass from the two-litre jug on his desk. A diluted lemon squash, judging by the smell. It seemed an odd choice of drink for a man like Magnussen. But then aside from the fact he liked to creep people out and blackmail them, Sherlock knew very little about the man.

They were in Magnussen's office, though all the doors were closed this time, and heavy metal Venetian blinds had been drawn down the floor to ceiling windows, partially obscuring the view over London. The cavernous room was sparsely furnished; aside from Magnussen's desk and swivel chair, there were a couple of low cupboards behind Sherlock and a few plain chairs, one in front of the desk and another couple lined up against the opposite wall. CCTV cameras were mounted on the walls on either side of the desk, their dull black lenses pointing at the middle of the room where Sherlock was standing. They had no light to indicate whether they were on or not.

After a few minutes, Sherlock began to get impatient. He didn’t want to demand Magnussen’s attention, because that would imply he wanted it, but on the other hand, this was getting boring. It reminded him of standing in the headmaster’s office at boarding school. Mr Wilkinson had always liked to keep students waiting by his desk, ignoring them and shuffling with his papers when they'd been sent up for some misdemeanour. He was an old fashioned headmaster who frequently bemoaned the abolition of corporal punishment in British schools, and often threatened to make an exception in Sherlock's case, showing him the cane he would have used had it been twenty years earlier. Sherlock had always observed the cane, on display in the corner of the office, with curiosity, wondering what it would feel like to be bent over the table with his trousers down and have Mr Wilkinson give him a good thrashing. More often than not, he had found the idea quite arousing.

Of course, Sherlock had experienced pain in a variety of situations since then, most recently when he was whipped by his Serbian guards while Mycroft, the bastard, watched on. He knew most of it was far from being as much fun as he'd imagined when he was a horny schoolboy. But back then, he had enjoyed fantasising about a stern father figure who made him feel little and insignificant, miles away from the adoration and encouragement he got from his loving parents. In some perverse way, the more Wilkinson humiliated him, the more excited Sherlock had become.

Magnussen poured himself another drink and Sherlock brought his mind back to the present. There was something oddly deliberate about the way Magnussen poured the drink, allowing the yellow liquid to trickle out into the glass from an unusual height. Sherlock couldn’t help but be reminded of the one time Magnussen had visited Baker Street; the sound of urine hitting the fireplace and the humiliation Sherlock had felt at being ignored when he was trying to negotiate. He also remembered the irrational arousal that had accompanied the feeling. Mr Wilkinson was far from the last man who had aroused Sherlock's interest by making him feel helpless and inferior.

It occurred to him that if the two-litre jug had been filled to the top when Magnussen started, and assuming he had drunk all of it, his bladder had to be very full and he would be feeling the pressure by now. The thought of that sensation sent a rush of warmth to Sherlock's own groin, filling his cock with blood and making it strain against the confines of his briefs and trousers.

Holding back was one of his favourite games. He rationalised that it gave a useful urgency to his deductions when he was on the verge of desperation at a crime scene, his mind somehow keener in its observations and conjectures when his body's urges became pressing. There was a limit of course, a fine line between urgency and desperation, the latter being the point at which his clever mind shut down and became a slave to the needs of his body and his ingrained instinct not to wet himself in public, unable to focus on anything other than facilitating his relief. That was a different game, one he enjoyed playing when he wasn't on a case and the thought of the humiliation of wetting himself and the intense arousal that accompanied it became a useful distraction from the boredom of existence.

"Show me your penis," said Magnussen suddenly.

Pulled out of his reverie, Sherlock wondered if he had heard that correctly. Magnussen wasn't even looking at him.

"I-- I beg your pardon?" stammered Sherlock, annoyed at being wrong-footed in front of such a loathsome adversary.

"It would be a shame if the person who shot the famous Sherlock Holmes was brought to light," said Magnussen conversationally, his eyes still on his laptop. "Their picture would no doubt appear in the papers, and former acquaintances might recognise them. I'm sure your friend Dr Watson would prefer to keep his domestic affairs out of the public eye."

Sherlock gritted his teeth; a biting remark would do no good at this point. Magnussen held all the cards, and though Sherlock was determined that it was only a temporary state of affairs, it was one he just had to accept for now.

Magnussen looked up at Sherlock with a cold smile, his voice even and deceptively reasonable.

"So humour me, Mr Holmes. Unzip your flies and show me your penis. I want to look at it."

Sherlock was no prude. He wasn't ashamed of his body and had never hesitated to uncover it when the need arose, including exposing his privates when appropriate, in front of his few sexual partners or on his very rare trips to see a doctor. He had also made a habit of walking around naked at Baker Street back in the days when John lived there. Not that John had ever been interested, to Sherlock’s disappointment.

So it wasn't modesty that made Sherlock hesitate. Of course, exposing himself in front of Magnussen was not an appealing prospect, and the unknown status of the CCTV cameras pointed at him also gave him pause. But more to the point, all his thoughts about Mr Wilkinson threatening to cane him and Magnussen pissing in the fireplace had given him the beginnings of an erection.

Magnussen drummed his fingers on the desktop, a clear signal that he thought Sherlock was taking too long. It would be worth it, thought Sherlock; he only needed to let Magnussen think he had the upper hand for now and then defeat him once he had a plan. His cheeks burning with unaccustomed embarrassment, Sherlock unzipped his trousers and, with some difficulty, pulled out his partially erect penis.

Looking down, Sherlock could see his body as it usually appeared; smart tailored jacket over dark trousers and a white shirt. Much the same outfit he had worn the day he revealed his subterfuge to John a year ago, in fact. But now, his erection was jutting out of his trousers, a grotesque reminder of his animal nature, a sharp contrast to his otherwise civilised appearance. He had lost a little of his arousal while Magnussen talked to him, but the sight of his own pink prick poking out of his trousers was enough to get him hard again. As he watched, his penis lengthened and started to rise.

"Hmm, very nice," said Magnussen, smacking his lips with appreciation. "I knew this would be an interesting evening.”

A wave of humiliation coloured Sherlock's cheeks again. He remembered Magnussen’s visit to the hospital; the moist hands caressing his arm, the dry lips on his hand. So this was it. Magnussen was collecting his reward for keeping quiet about Mary. Sherlock thought about Mary and the baby, and about how much John missed her even though he wasn’t yet ready to admit it. He stared straight ahead at the strips of cityscape between the Venetian blinds and steeled himself for whatever was going to come.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the businessman reach one hand under the table, his arm moving in a slow circular motion. The thought that Magnussen was touching himself as he watched Sherlock's exposed erection made Sherlock's mouth go dry and he closed his eyes, trying to will his erection away.

He heard the sound of liquid being poured out of the jug again--the last drops, from the sound of things--and heard gentle gulping sounds as Magnussen drained his glass in one long go. Sherlock couldn't help returning to the thought of how full Magnussen must be feeling. He wondered whether Magnussen enjoyed the sensation as much as he did.

"We will play a little game, you and I," said Magnussen, rising from his chair. Sherlock opened his eyes and turned to look at him, a little apprehensive, but mostly determined to do whatever it was that the bastard wanted in order to get this over with.

"Ah." Magnussen winced and clutched his crotch as he stood up. "I think I have drunk a bit too much. It is a delightfully dirty sensation, isn't it, a full bladder?" After a pause, Magnussen seemed to regain control and he walked around the desk to stand in front of Sherlock. "And of course an even dirtier sensation if you lose control."

Sherlock swallowed hard and tried to affect a nonchalant air despite his humiliating situation. Magnussen looked down at Sherlock's erection, now hard enough to be at its most impressive, pointing upwards and, as Sherlock realised to his horror when he glanced down, the tip glistening with a drop of pre-cum.

"I think we have similar interests," said Magnussen with a predatory smile. "Kneel."

Startled, Sherlock snapped his attention back to Magnussen's face, once again unsure if he'd heard correctly. "You--you what?"

"I'm sorry," said Magnussen calmly. "Perhaps I was not clear enough. It is my poor English perhaps that means you do not understand the consequences of displeasing me."

"No. I get it," said Sherlock. He had no desire to hear Magnussen's threats again, to be reminded who he was doing this for and why. John's happiness was more important than his pride. "Just not used to this."

"Oh, you soon will be. Now, get on your knees."

Lowering his eyes so he wouldn't see the look of triumph in Magnussen's cold eyes, Sherlock sank to his knees.

In this position, with his bottom resting on his heels, Sherlock's line of sight was just below Magnussen's crotch. For a moment, Magnussen did nothing, no doubt savouring the sight of Sherlock on his knees. When Magnussen had texted Sherlock earlier that evening, summoning him to the tower, Sherlock had hoped that the scene in the hospital was mere intimidation and that he would at most be humiliated in a non-sexual way, and perhaps coerced into providing some professional favours; after all, Sherlock's skills would come in useful to ferret out some juicy newsworthy gossip. Clearly, he had been as wrong about that as he had been about Magnussen's glasses.

"Good boy," said Magnussen, and the implications of that stereotypical phrase made Sherlock's stomach churn. "Now, I need to take care of my problem. There is a basin in the cupboard behind you. Please bring it here."

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at the cupboard. He raised one knee, preparing to stand up, but Magnussen chuckled.

"Oh, I think you know better than that."

Swallowing a fair amount of bile as well as his pride, Sherlock got back on his hands and knees and crawled over to the cupboard. The movement made his exposed shaft rub against the material of his trousers and he tried not to imagine what he must look like, crawling on the floor in his suit with his penis dangling down. He really hoped the cameras weren't on, and if they were, that no one else was watching. The thought of someones else seeing him crawl like this was simultaneously nauseating and arousing.

The "basin" Magnussen had referred to was a low, narrow tub made of cheap white plastic. Sherlock didn't need to use his powers of deduction to imagine what Magnussen wanted it for, though he was less certain about the role he himself would play. But he knew from experience that anticipating an unpleasant experience only helped to prolong it. As he pushed the tub across the floor, he tried to clear his mind and concentrate on the present. Maybe if he just blindly did whatever Magnussen said, the man would get bored.

"Put it at my feet, end on," instructed Magnussen, "and then straddle it."

Sherlock had to shuffle a bit to work the material of his trouser legs up his thighs to prevent the trousers being pulled down when he kneeled over the tub. When he was in position, he realised he was slightly higher than before and was directly facing Magnussen's crotch. There was a very obvious bulge there now and even a hint of a wet patch seeping through the light linen of Magnussen's suit. Sherlock swallowed hard again, a familiar heaviness weighing in his privates; much as he shunned physical desire in general, and hated Magnussen in particular, Sherlock did get turned on by the sight of men's arousal. Especially in real life, where he could add the smell to the visual.

"Ah, sorry. Of course." Magnussen had apparently noticed the direction of Sherlock's stare, because he started to unzip his own flies. "You were kind enough to show me yours, it is only polite that I show you mine."

Sherlock knew he should look away to preserve some kind of dignity, and clearly communicate that he was not a willing participant in this game. But he watched in fascination as Magnussen pulled out his cock and let it hang a few inches from Sherlock's face. Had he ventured a guess before this moment, Sherlock might have assumed that Magnussen would have a small to average-sized penis, given his obsession with self-aggrandisement at the expense of others. But although he was only half erect, it seemed that Magnussen actually had quite a large cock, thick and slightly curved to one side.

"Hold your jacket open."

The instruction made very little sense but Sherlock decided it was no more bizarre than being made to expose himself and crawl on the ground. Given their relative positions, Sherlock assumed that Magnussen intended to coerce him into performing oral sex. For all his determination to take things as they came, the thought filled him with dread as he held his jacket open, exposing his white shirt. 

He kept his eyes on Magnussen's prick. The purplish head was poking out of the thick foreskin and he could plainly see the urethral opening at the tip. He was just trying to picture what it would taste like in his mouth (it had been a while) when a drop of almost clear liquid bubbled up in Magnussen's opening.

Before Sherlock had time to fully process what was happening, the drop turned into a strong, sudden jet of urine. It hit Sherlock in the upper chest, splattering his chin and soaking through his cotton shirt onto his skin.

"Oh!" he gasped.

The bizarrely lemon-tinged stench of urine filled his nostrils, and he closed his mouth, clutching the lapels of his jacket to keep it out of the flow. The air was filled with the sound of piss gushing onto Sherlock's chest and stomach, running down onto his crotch and dripping into the tub between his legs. A yellow puddle was forming in the white basin below Sherlock's still rigid cock. Magnussen steered the flow onto Sherlock’s erection, covering it with a warm coating of piss that trickled down the side and dripped noisily into the puddle. 

Coupled with the visual of Magnussen's half-erect cock pissing on him, the sensation was intensely erotic. Sherlock bit his lip and moaned involuntarily. His balls tightened, still confined inside his trousers and underwear, and he instinctively bucked his hips into the stream as his cock pulsed urgently with excitement, unable to do more than squeeze out a trickle of pre-cum without more direct stimulation. Sherlock closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, the humiliation of his own lack of control washing over him.

Magnussen chuckled and continued to urinate on Sherlock's erection, keeping him on the verge of orgasm, until the flow slowed to a trickle and stopped.

“Oh, that is much better. Now, suck me clean."

Without waiting for Sherlock to obey, Magnussen grabbed his hair just hard enough to brook no refusal without actually being painful, and pulled his head forward. Sherlock had to let go of his jacket and grab Magnussen's thigh to stop himself falling over. Holding Sherlock's head by his hair and his own penis in the other hand, Magnussen pushed his cock into Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock had tasted urine before, just as he had tasted kerosene and gasoline and any number of other substances he wanted to be able to reliably identify without the aid of a lab. He'd also given a man a blow job before, though not since he was sexually active in his university days. But the sudden intrusion of Magnussen's cock into his mouth was accompanied with a small quantity of acrid piss that flooded his throat before he was ready and he spluttered, coughing a trickle of urine down his chin.

Magnussen held his head firmly in place, though, so he had no choice but to swallow the rest, breathing heavily through his nostrils and trying not to choke again as Magnussen's cock began to grow. He used his tongue to push the hardening organ away from the back of his throat, hoping that the extra stimulation would also hasten the end of this ordeal.

This was violation beyond anything Sherlock had experienced before. Though he had sometimes fantasised about submission, imagining a man forcing him to kneel and service him, he had never imagined it would actually happen to him. He was uncomfortable, his thighs aching from the strain of straddling the piss-filled tub, and he couldn't imagine how he was going to get home with his clothes dripping with urine. That thought sent a perverse thrill through him again, his erection tensing up against his soiled shirt.

"Hmm, you have such a beautiful mouth," said Magnussen, breaking into his thoughts. "I knew it would be a pleasure to fuck it."

Magnussen let go of his own penis and cupped the side of Sherlock's face, pressing a clammy palm to his cheek while the fist in his hair tightened. He guided Sherlock's head back and forth so he could fuck his mouth without thrusting his hips.

"And you like this a lot," he continued. "You are so hard from me pissing on you. I think you would like to touch yourself, wouldn't you? You'd like to rub my piss into your cock while I fuck your mouth."

The thought of giving into his own dirty impulses and jerking off because Magnussen had used him as a toilet made Sherlock whimper involuntarily. But the last shred of dignity he had left forced him to keep his hands well away from his aching erection. He didn't want to give Magnussen the satisfaction.

"Good boy. I will tell you if I think you deserve to come. This is not for your pleasure. You are my toy now, and I will use you when I want you." 

He let go of Sherlock's hair and cupped his other cheek as well so that he was holding Sherlock's head more firmly. He started to thrust, pushing his cock further in on every movement of his hips. He was fully erect now and his cock felt impressively large in Sherlock's mouth, pushing past his tongue and hitting the back of his soft palate. Sherlock's eyes watered and he tried not to retch.

"I own you, Sherlock Holmes. I will tell you when I want you, and if you are not kneeling at my feet at the right time, my bodyguards will bring you to me. This is not a safe or consensual relationship. You will have no safe word. If you do not obey me, I will punish you. Is that agreed?"

He stopped thrusting, his erection pushed as far into Sherlock's mouth as he could get it. His wiry blonde and grey pubic hair tickled the tip of Sherlock's nose.

"Look at me. Is that agreed?"

Sherlock looked up at Magnussen, the loathsome man who was doing this to him. Unable to speak with his mouth full, all he could do was make an indistinct noise. It wasn't as if Magnussen was actually asking for his consent.

"Hmm, good boy." He stroked Sherlock's face, his moist fingers tracing his cheekbones. "You are such a good toy. I will enjoy watching all this again later. Maybe we will watch it together."

Sherlock involuntarily looked up at one of the cameras pointing at them. The thought that everything had been filmed--the kneeling, the crawling, the pissing, the blow job, his own perverse arousal--made Sherlock feel sick. He didn't usually care what people thought about him, and he knew everyone would believe him if he said he was forced. But he didn't want anyone to know about this. They would lose their faith in his strength of character if they knew how easily he had submitted to Magnussen.

Magnussen let go of Sherlock's face.

"Now, be a good boy and finish me off. Make it good for posterity."

Fighting back the irrational tears rising to his eyes, Sherlock raised one hand to grasp Magnussen's erection and began to bob his head up and down, sucking and licking it. He probably looked like one of those weirdly hairless boys in porn videos, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked cock like a pro.

"Very good." Magnussen's hand was in his hair again and somehow, it made Sherlock feel better, a physical reminder that he was doing this because Magnussen was forcing him, not because he actually wanted it. "Now faster and deeper."

Sherlock obeyed, building up a faster rhythm and trying to get as much in his mouth as he could. He just wanted this to be over now. His erection had waned and his thighs ached, and the air stank of Magnussen's piss.

"Touch yourself," ordered Magnussen.

Masturbating was the one thing Sherlock really didn't want to have to do at this stage, but he felt he had no choice. His erection easily sprang back to life when he grabbed it. It was sticky with piss and its own pre-cum, and the thought of what he now had on his hand made Sherlock feel even dirtier. An overwhelming wave of arousal washed over him. Magnussen was fucking his mouth again, just using Sherlock's face to get off, and that thought was enough to start the build up to an orgasm. He was Magnussen's toy, a thing Magnussen could use as a toilet or a cunt, using him as if his only purpose in life was to please his owner. Sherlock's fist moved faster on his shaft, his eyes closed and his mouth filled with his owner's cock as he neared what promised to be an earth-shattering orgasm.

Magnussen suddenly pulled out, leaving Sherlock feeling unexpectedly empty. Surprised, he stopped masturbating and opened his eyes. Magnussen grinned at him.

"Open wide."

Oh. Of course. His heart sinking a little as he came down from his pre-orgasmic state, Sherlock opened his mouth and closed his eyes.

"No, look at me," said Magnussen breathlessly. "Look at what I am doing. You British, so reserved, so prim and proper. Look at what I am going to do to you now.”

Irritated at having his own orgasm interrupted when he had finally felt ready to give in to this madness, Sherlock felt like pointing out that he could guess what Magnussen was going to do without having to watch it. On the other hand, when he did look, the sight of Magnussen masturbating, about to come on his face and mouth, was a lot more arousing than he had expected.

Magnussen ejaculated a moment later, a salty string hitting Sherlock's lower lip and chin, while others fell down onto his drenched clothes and one onto his now neglected erection. Sherlock licked his lip automatically and winced at the sour taste.

"You'll get used to it," said Magnussen with a chuckle. He zipped up his flies and returned to his desk. "I would love to play with you some more, but I am afraid I have a prior appointment. Please put the basin back in the cupboard. Someone will deal with that later."

Sherlock stared at Magnussen. This wasn’t at all how he’d expected the encounter to end. On the other hand, he knew he should be grateful that the ordeal was over. Trying not to think too much about the contents of the tub and how much of it was also on his clothes, Sherlock turned and pushed it back towards the cupboard. When he had closed the door, he heard Magnussen press a button on the intercom on his desk.

"Mr Holmes is leaving. Please come and escort him out of the building."

Sherlock realised what was about to happen; he sprang to his feet and put on his coat and scarf to cover his soiled clothes. He was just going to have to accept that his jacket as well as the shirt was ruined, and hope none of it was on his coat. He had several of them, but not an infinite supply.

He barely had time to wipe the come off his chin with his scarf when the bodyguard walked in. Sherlock strode straight past him to the lifts, hoping that the man wouldn't notice the state he was in under his coat. They stood in silence at opposite ends of the lift until they reached the ground floor.

"You need a shower, mate," grumbled the guard as he let Sherlock out past the deserted security gates.

He was right. Sherlock felt as though he needed to scrub every inch of his body after his encounter. But first, he was going to have to walk home, since no cab would take him smelling like this and he didn't particularly feel like attracting attention on the Central Line either.

He had made it a couple of blocks down the road when he remembered that his flies were still undone under his coat. There was nothing he could do about that just yet. The City had the highest concentration of CCTV cameras in the world and he didn't want to risk his brother finding out what had happened. He imagined what the very few passersby would think if they knew that the famous Sherlock Holmes was walking down the street covered in another man's come and piss and with his prick sticking out of his trousers under his trademark coat. 

The thought of his shameful secret made him feel dirty and aroused, his frustrated erection returning as his exposed penis rubbed against the soft lining of his jacket. He was soon finding it difficult to walk, every step stimulating his sensitised organ until he couldn't stand it any longer.

He found a blind spot in a side alley where the cameras were pointing in opposite directions. Hiding behind the corner of a building by a street light, he opened his coat and jacket. His shirt was stuck to his skin, his nipples and chest hair just visible through the still wet fabric. Magnussen's mark of ownership. Bile rose to Sherlock's throat as he remembered kneeling and crawling for his new "owner". Remembered being used as a urinal and fucked like a toy. Looking down, Sherlock watched his erection rise until it was straining against his belly.

Might as well get it over with. Sherlock had been so desperate to come earlier that he could tell his body would give him no respite until he got off. He grabbed his piss-covered erection and started rubbing, giving free reign to his imagination to ensure this wouldn't take too long.

Magnussen would probably make him watch the video, force him to watch himself kneeling like a slave and touching himself while his master fucked his mouth. He'd probably piss on him again, into his open mouth this time--Sherlock whimpered--and make him lick up anything that dripped onto the floor. Maybe Sherlock would refuse and Magnussen would order his bodyguards to bend him over the desk. Then he would whip him like a naughty schoolboy, a riding crop placing sharp, loud blows across his bared bottom until Sherlock was on the verge of crying with pain and humiliation. 

Sherlock changed hands, wanking with his left hand while he licked his right one, sucking on his urine-flavoured fingers. He bucked into his hand, not caring whether anyone might walk past and see him like this, jerking off openly in a public place. Too lost in his dirty thoughts to do anything but focus on his own pleasure.

He'd cry for real a moment later, still bent over the desk, when he felt Magnussen's thick cock against his anus, pushing in. Sherlock would struggle then, but the bodyguards would keep him still, forcing him to take his owner's cock all the way in, to let him fuck his arse like he had fucked his mouth, coming and pissing inside, and sending him home like that, with a sore bottom filled with his master's fluids.

Sherlock groaned loudly as one of the most intense orgasms he'd experienced in a long time hit him. He opened his eyes to watch him own come spurt up onto his soiled shirt and down on the filthy ground of the alley. He wiped his hand on his trouser leg and leaned against the wall, completely spent.

When his heart had stopped hammering in his chest and he felt able to walk again, he tucked his penis back into his soiled trousers and closed his jacket and coat. Now that his arousal was satisfied, he was left with nothing but the memory of his humiliation and degradation. And the man who had done that to him.

Sherlock had loathed Magnussen before, but it was nothing compared to the hatred he felt now.


End file.
